The Mentalist and the Consultant
by ConstantineHolmes
Summary: Lisbon and Jane receive a case about a murdered politician. This is nothing new. However, shock comes to them when they learn that they were to be working with a foreign detective, named Sherlock Holmes.
1. Meeting Sherlock

The engine of a plane roared overhead. Flights were announced and delayed. The smell of airplane fuel permeates the air outside; the inside of the airport reeked of cheap food and pointless little knick knacks. In the waiting room sat Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane. Bored and impatient, Lisbon tapped her feet.

"Would you calm down?" Jane asked, exasperated. "Please? The body isn't going anywhere, nor is the crime scene. So just relax. He'll be here soon enough."

"I know," Lisbon sighed. She checked her watch. "I'm just a bit impatient. I just want to get to the crime scene already. I mean it's bad enough that there's some important person dead, but now we have to pick up some foreign amateur detective? Seriously?"

"Why are you so upset about this detective guy?" asked Jane. "Minelli says he's a genius. It'll be fun."

"See, that's what I'm worried about," Lisbon replied, turning to Jane. "If you cause any trouble with this guy, there are going to be serious repercussions." She pointed at Jane, trying to make a point. Jane simply waved her hand away. She sighed. "He's not even an official detective, he's just some amateur."

"An amateur that the police over there often ask for help," reminded Jane. Lisbon just looked away.

Jane sighed, and checked his watch. Five more minutes. He looked around at all the people. He had to admit, he somewhat agreed with Lisbon. About two and a half hours ago, they had received a visit by Minelli. Minelli had informed them that they had a case, involving some big, politically involved person. Patrick had thrown out the name of the victim from his memories. This was nothing new. What was new was Minelli saying that some British detective was being called in to help them. Lisbon had protested. Oh, how she protested. Sadly, no matter how much she argued, or explained that the team was more than capable, Minelli wouldn't budge. Apparently, this was because the wife of the victim was connected with the police in both England and California, something about family, probably, and had demanded that this person be brought in. Minelli had complained, but to no avail. Despite the tension, Patrick was intrigued as to how this might play out. This could prove very interesting, and better yet, amusing.

The minutes passed, and eventually they got up to greet the new comer.

"What does he look like?" asked Jane, rocking on his feet.

"Uhh, tall, black hair, serious looking. Apparently wears a long coat. Has kind of a 'know him when you see him' look to him," Lisbon described the man.

"What's his name?" asked Jane. Lisbon looked at him, incredulous. Jane looked at her, confused at her surprise. "What?" He asked, defensively.

"Minelli already told you his name!" Lisbon cried.

"Yeah, I stopped listening after you started yelling." Jane confessed. "Which was right after he said there was a British detective coming."

Lisbon looked away, tucking her hands in her pockets. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "His name is Sherlock Holmes," she said, lifting her head and voice. "He has an associate by the name of John Watson. They apparently worked on a number of cases with the police, without even accepting payment. He also takes up minor and major clients. One of his clients was even a part of the Royal family, apparently." Jane whistled.

"Impressive," commented Jane. "Very impressive."

"Yeah." Lisbon's gaze shifted, and her eyebrows lifted. Jane followed her view. Coming out of the door was exactly the person she had described earlier on. Tall, black hair, expensive coat and suit. He had a focused look to him, and an excited one; he seemed to think the this would be fun. Or that it might be, at least. His eyes were wandering about, but in a searching sort of way. Not, Jane thought, dissimilar to the way he would look, when he was wandering around a crime scene, searching for clues. Jane smiled at that thought. Next to him walked a much smaller person, who had a military look to him.

"Ah!" cried Jane. "Mr. Holmes! Mr. Watson! Over here!"

Turning towards the sound of Jane's voice, the man singled them out, and turned in their direction.

"Ahh," began Sherlock when they arrived. "Agent Lisbon, Agent Jane." He shook their hands. He had a firm grip, and was wearing gloves. "And please, it's Sherlock." He smiled at them. "And this is my friend, John Watson."

John shook their hands. "Hi," he said, slightly nervous.

"Mm," began Jane. "Ex-military?"

"I – yes," started John, evidently confused. "Sorry, did they tell you about us?"

Jane shook his head slightly. "Oh no," he grinned. "No. I mean, the way you walk, your hairstyle, your-" he gestured to his own face. "Face. You don't look like you're much of a fighter, so maybe intelligence, no, a medic." Jane grinned. He looked to Sherlock, who appeared impressed.

"I'm sorry for my colleagues behaviour," apologised Lisbon. John stopped her.

"No, no," he told her quickly. "It's fine. Really. I have to deal with that on a daily basis." He smiled at her. "Uhh, anyway, we should get going." He motioned for them to lead the way.

"Of course." Lisbon turned, and began to lead them to get their bags. Jane had waited for everyone to go ahead, however Sherlock had stayed behind, too. Jane gestured for him to go ahead.

"How did you figure out that John was a medic?" Sherlock asked. "The military part is obvious, but not quite the medic part. I met John a while back in a hospital, which he had mentioned by accident was where he trained. How did you come to that conclusion?"

Jane stared at Sherlock for a moment. He was genuinely curious. He smiled again. "Well, I said that he had the overall look of a military man. However, he didn't really have the appearance of someone who was in the field, fighting. So, I took a stab, and started to say he was an intelligence officer—"

"Then why didn't you?" interrupted Sherlock.

"Well, when I read his expression, I saw I was wrong. So, I tried medic, and got it right." Jane looked at Sherlock, trying to gauge his reaction.

"So," Sherlock drew the word out. "Basically you guessed that he was a medic?" Jane shrugged.

"Well, yeah. It was an educated guess."

"Hmm." Sherlock pondered this over. "Where did he serve?" He asked at last, looking down at Jane, a sly look in his face. Jane recognized it instantly.

"Ah," he looked downwards, grinning. "Testing me. Interesting. Well, he had a slight tan left over, so I'd say somewhere where there's a lot of sun. He was discharged a while ago due to an injury. Maybe Afghanistan or Iraq." He looked at Sherlock, who looked at him sideways. "Well?" He asked.

"Good," said Sherlock. "Very good. Surprisingly good. I dare even say impressive." He smiled at Patrick. "Mr. Jane, I think we might get along very well."

"Oh, well," said Jane, grinning like a wolf. "That's good. And please, just Jane. No Mr."

"Of course," replied Sherlock smiling. Just then, two voices cut through the air.

"Jane! Jane?" "Sherlock! Sherlock?"

"Oops, that'd be us," he turned, taking off to the sound of the two mildly distressed voices.

...

"Hey," John began. "Can I just say in advance, sorry about Sherlock. He can be rather... direct, sometimes."

"Oh, it's fine," Lisbon waved aside the apology. "Ours is the same. Speaks his mind, no matter who to. Unless it serves his purpose to keep something a secret." Lisbon sighed. "Yours much the same?" She looked sideways at John. He chuckled.

"Yeah," he told her. "Pretty much." He looked around, before bring his attention back to Lisbon. "By the way," he began. "The way he managed to read me, like that—"

"Yeah, I'm sorry," Lisbon apologised. "He does that. A lot."

"No, it's fine," John told her. "I was just saying, that was an awful lot like Sherlock. I mean, just as quick and accurate."

"Really?" Lisbon asked. John nodded. She trembled. John looked at her, concerned.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," she reassured him. "I'm just trying to imagine two Jane's. Or, for you, two Sherlock's."

"Oh God, you're right," he agreed. "Hang on, where are they, anyway?" He turned, realising that neither Sherlock nor Jane were to be seen.

"What?" asked Lisbon, shocked, and feeling dread come upon her. "Aw, crap. We gotta find them quickly, before they can cause any trouble." Lisbon took off, back the way they came from, calling Jane's name. John decided to follow suit.

...

"There you are!" called Lisbon, her face contorted into an expression of anger.

"Here we are," replied Jane, nonchalant as ever.

"Where were you?" asked Lisbon indignantly.

"Oh, right where you left us. Just having a little chat with Sherlock."

"Yeah, well next time walk and talk, okay?" demanded Lisbon.

"Alright," submitted Jane, raising his hands in defeat. "Walking and talking."

"Come on," ordered Lisbon, sounding strained. "We're late already."

"Sherlock," John whispered to Sherlock as they walked. "Please don't do anything to antagonize these people."

"I was simply having a conversation with Jane regarding his deductions about you," retorted Sherlock. "I must admit, his methods are... interesting."

"Right," said John, concern permeating his voice.

"Oh, stop worrying, John," remarked Sherlock. "Jane and I will get along just fine."

"Yeah, I don't know which would be worse," muttered John under his breath. "You getting along or you not."

Soon after, they had retrieved their luggage, and headed to the car. Lisbon sighed as she got into the car, relieved that they were finally on their way to the crime scene.


	2. Going to California

_221B Baker Street_

"John!" yelled Sherlock from his couch, one dull Monday morning. "Any news?!"

John, who was reading the paper in the kitchen, refused to look up. He did not, however, refuse to yell back at Sherlock. "The paper is right there, Sherlock!" Sherlock looked to his left, where there was indeed a newspaper.

"Oh," Sherlock simply stated. John shook his head, wondering how the most observant person that ever walked this Earth, that solves cases simply by looking at the crime scene once then lounging in his armchair, could be so dull at times.

"Anything?" John asked, knowing the answer already.

"You already know the answer, John," replied Sherlock. He sat up, throwing the paper on the table. "Argh!" he cried. "Five days without a case. Five days of BOREDOM!" He ran his fingers through his hair. The consulting detective sighed.

"You know Sherlock, you could always get a part time job." John now looked up at him, in a challenging sort of way. Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh please," he laughed. "Do you honestly think I could manage it? As if anyone would hire me in the first place. And even if anyone did, I would probably be fired very soon. And I'd likely be overqualified for everything." He moved to lie down again.

Just then, to the great relief of everyone involved, the doorbell rang. Sherlock leapt out of the couch, and dashed to the window, gown trailing behind him. He looked down and saw Detective Inspector Lestrade enter through the door.

"Who is it?" queried John, attempting and miserably failing to contain his excitement. He'd been stuck listening to Sherlock complain about the lack of crime for five days, and would happily take whatever was offered.

"It's Lestrade." Sherlock stood for a moment, before turning at the same moment the door opened.

"Sherlock—" Lestrade managed to get out, before he was interrupted.

"The answer's yes," said Sherlock immediately. "I'll take the case."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, then at John. "But I haven't even told you what it is."

"It's been a dull week," piped up John, as way of explanation. Lestrade nodded in understanding.

"So?" asked Sherlock, expectantly.

"You'll take whatever it is?" asked Lestrade, cautious. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes.

"Yes! Now get on with it."

"Alright then," Lestrade took a breath. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "There's been a murder, some political fellow. His wife requested that you specifically be put on the case." Lestrade moved the paper up a bit, and continued to read. "The victim, one Martin Shawl, was killed in a bath tub, in a resort. And here's the part you'll love. He died by hypothermia." At this, Sherlock jerked his head forward.

"Hypothermia?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah," nodded Lestrade. "Like I told you, that's the part you'll love." Lestrade took a breath again. "Now, The crime scene is going to be a bit difficult to get to."

"Oh, no matter," said Sherlock, waving his hand in dismissal. "Just tell me the location."

"I was getting to that," Lestrade responded, irritated. "You'll have to take a plane there. It's in California."

"What?" spat John.

"Yeah." Lestrade nodded again. He stuck the paper in his pocket.

Sherlock grinned. "Well," he began, moving towards his room, invigorated. "What are waiting for? Come on John! Pack your bags! The game is on! I'll go buy the tickets!"

"Uhh, that won't actually be necessary," Lestrade called over to him. "Mycroft's agreed to send you over on one of his personal planes."

"He- seriously?" asked John, incredulous. Lestrade nodded once more. John whistled. "Must be someone important, then." He grunted, then got up to pack his bags.

Not even half an hour later, they arrived at the airport, where the British Government was waiting for him. Or, as he prefers to be called, Mycroft.

"Ah, Mycroft." Sherlock greeted his brother, the slight hint of scorn in his voice.

"Sherlock," Mycroft replied, tired. "I know that it might be pointless, but I have to ask you to be careful with how you behave over in America. You aren't exactly their favourite person, at the moment."

"Oh, I'm sure there's no hard feelings," Sherlock smiled.

"Indeed," muttered Mycroft, as Sherlock pushed past him. "This is the Aerion AS2. It'll take you there in only a few hours. You're money's already been converted into American currency, and a hotel has been booked for you."

John smiled. "Uhh, thanks," he said unsurely. He continued after Sherlock, but was stopped by Mycroft's umbrella.

"You will take care of him, won't you, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft asked, although it was less a question, and more a demand. John looked into his eyes, and thought for a moment that he saw concern in those cold eyes. That thought vanished, even quicker than it came.

"Yes," he replied. "Of course, I will."

Mycroft smiled, and removed his umbrella. "Well, have a nice trip then," he whispered. "Doctor Watson." With that, he left.

John boarded the plane, frowning. His mood changed when he saw the interior. Sherlock was sitting by one of the windows, coat hanging over the one adjacent. He had his phone out, and was typing something. John sat down diagonally to him, checking something on his own phone. Some time later, the plane started off, down the runway, and eventually took off. John looked out the window, and a sense of unease came about him.


	3. Starting the Investigation

**Starting**** the Investigation**

Jane smiled as surveyed the scene, stepping out of the car, delighted. It was a magnificent hotel next to a gorgeous cliff. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the salty sea air.

"Mm! Smell that sea breeze," he said, stretching his arms. "Oh, what a view! It's beautiful!"

His cheeriness was not shared by his colleagues. Lisbon, as usual, was irritated by his overly cheerful demeaner, and probably the fact that he and Sherlock were talking the whole drive. John seemed irate because of the same reason; he was forced to listen to what he would probably call two arrogant geniuses constantly chatting about things he barely understood. That, and he wanted to spend some time with Lisbon alone.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was irritated at Jane's cheery demeanour simply because it wasn't directed towards the murder. He was under the impression that he needed to detach himself from emotions as much as he could, and felt that anyone who was as clever as he is should be more like he was.

It was only partly his fault, of course. It spoke of a troubled childhood. He was almost certainly bullied at every turn during his school life, and his intelligence likely made him feel more comfortable amongst the higher classes. This would've caused a massive imbalance between his intelligence and his emotions. Being a younger brother likely didn't help much. He wanted someone like him, basically. And his older brother, whom he looked up to, and still likely does, despite any protests he would undoubtedly give, was almost certainly of a similar behaviour.

Of course, he would've had a superiority complex without the emotional trauma. Now he has a complex and is extremely lonely. It's a good thing he has John.

"Are you always this cheerful?" sneered Sherlock.

"Ah, no, not always," answered Jane. "Sometimes I get bored."

"Is that during your bouts of insomnia?" Sherlock queried. John stiffened, and made to reprimand Sherlock.

"Ah, you noticed that," piped Jane with a smile, stopping John from saying anything. "Yes, usually then, but I also have to sit through long boring conferences whenever I can't escape them. Just like, when you can't find a case, you abuse drugs."

Sherlock and John stiffened, and Lisbon's eyes grew wide. Jane quickly retracted his statement.

"Sorry, not abuse, just use," he said, a small smile forming.

"Jane, that's enough," said Lisbon, her voice low, and quite dangerous.

Jane looked at the consulting detective, their faces neutral, both knowing exactly why Jane had said that. Then he smiled. "Yeah, that's enough." He turned, and made his way to the hotel.

"Jane," hissed Lisbon, catching up to him. "What the hell was that? I'm not happy the guy's here either, but that was uncalled for."

"Oh, don't be so upset, Lisbon," waved Jane. "I was just testing a theory."

"Oh really? And what theory was that?"

"Well, to see if he really is as uncaring as he says he is," explained Jane. "Turns out he isn't."

"But to accuse him of drug abuse?" hissed Lisbon. They passed through the doors, and Lisbon showed her badge.

"Well, I wouldn't call it accusing," he said. He walked faster, leaving Lisbon to wonder his meaning.

* * *

"Sherlock, please, please, don't antagonise these people," said John as they walked down the gravely path. "You really aren't on good terms with them."

"Oh, don't worry John," said Sherlock, waving aside his concerns. "The CIA wouldn't tell these people. They probably tried to cover it up as much as they can. My brother did."

John sighed, exasperated. "Still, please."

Sherlock in turn sighed. "Fine, I'll see what I can do. After all, Jane does have some redeeming qualities, even if he is far too cheerful and emotional."

John sighed. This would be the best, he knew, he would be able to get from Sherlock. It did nothing to alleviate his concerns. Sherlock Holmes with any police is a troublesome experience, even when you've been at it for a while. But this Patrick Jane guy… he doubted Sherlock noticed it, but when John looked at him, yes, he saw a flippant man who made remarks in a manner similar to Sherlock, and could make deductions like as well, but he also saw sadness, similar to the sadness he'd seen in the eyes of soldiers. Soldiers who lived whilst everyone else died. Survivors guilt. But this seemed a little deeper.

* * *

When Sherlock and John arrived at the living room, they found it to be mostly empty. The forensics team had, for the most part, left. As it was, aside from a four or so packing scientists, there stood one man, wearing a suit with a leather jacket over it, talking to Lisbon. A faint scent wafted over from him; red wine, Sherlock suspected. He concluded that this man had some wine with his dinner last night, and upon spilling it, cleaned it up hastily. An objectively uninteresting or impressive deduction. But when the man kept covering it up, the consultant suspected a failed date last night.

Still not important.

Sherlock listened to the now talking man. "Uh, no sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle, no blow to the head, basically nothing indicating that this was murder. Coroner says this was probably an accident caused by drunkenness."

"Great," moaned Lisbon. "Tell the coroner that we'll only be a few more minutes, then they can have the body."

"Sure thing boss," said the man, covering the shirt once more, leaving to perform his duty.

Sherlock and John went to nearby bathroom, whither Jane stood outside. Sherlock noted the half empty wine bottle and glasses on the table by the fireplace. As the duo neared the door, Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and John made a face. There was a rancid odour wafting over from the bathroom.

They stopped by the door, waiting to see if Jane would go in first, and went in when he signalled they could go first.

Sherlock nearly recoiled at the wave of the rank odour. Even for him, who had spent countless hours studying decaying bodies, it was nearly overwhelming.

John, on the other hand, very much recoiled, holding an elbow to his nose. Jane too fell back, letting out a cry of disgust. However, all three of them steeled their nerves, and went in to take a look.

Agent Lisbon came in, along with an old man. The coroner, going by what he was wearing. They winced at the smell, Teresa more so than the coroner.

"He was found just like this," said the man, standing by the clothes basket. Sherlock looked towards the body in the tub, kneeling down to inspect it properly. "He has a BAC of .40. He probably was too drunk to realise he was dying. I don't think that this is really necessary."

Jane smiled. "Well, it's good to see you've decided to become a detective, Dr. Steiner. So, you think that that half a bottle of wine was strong enough to stop him from thinking, then."

Steiner fumbled with his words a little, realising that _did_ sound a little implausible. "I… no, I never said that, I just said—"

"I mean, if that was the case, the real crime is the malpractice this hotel is committing," interrupted Jane.

Sherlock, who was inspecting the body with a magnifying glass, chiefly the neck, hemmed loudly, but otherwise didn't speak. As he turned the body one way, Jane caught a glimpse of a tattoo.

"Ah, Sherlock, would you mind turning the body a little more, I think there's a tattoo." When Sherlock complied, they saw indeed a tattoo of a crown of thorns. "Ah, interesting. Okay, I'm going to inspect the bedroom."

"The bedroom? Why?" asked Lisbon. "And how is a tattoo interesting?"

"Ah, because it's an insight to the victims' psyche, and to see if there are any clues to be found, and so I can breathe again." Without another word, Patrick was out the door. Sherlock stood up, his investigation apparently over.

"This man, does he have a history of sticking needles into his neck?"

Both Lisbon and Dr. Steiner looked towards Sherlock as though he was an idiot. John simply frowned.

"No," said Teresa, not a little condescendingly. "He's a politician. Not some sort of weird drug addict."

Sherlock took off his gloves. "Then when you get the autopsy report, would you mind explaining to me what those two needle marks on his neck are for?"

With that, he left for the bedroom, leaving behind a perplexed trio.


	4. Agreeing to Dinner

**Agreeing to Dinner**

Patrick tapped his lips, pondering, standing in the bedroom. It was surprisingly clean, except perhaps for the bed, which had part of the duvet thrown to the side of the bed. There were extinguished candles by the windows. All this was registered in his mind. But his mind turned to another thought. He felt it was important, but he wasn't entirely certain; he would need confirmation about the timeline, and the particular events. Yet it seemed most likely, and somehow important.

"Sherlock, oh Sherlock, thank goodness you're here." Jane spun around. It came from outside, from the grieving widow. Jane decided to go and talk to her. _Sherlock wouldn't want to_, thought Jane with a small chuckle.

Indeed, outside was a woman, in her mid-thirties. Her face was streaked with dried tears. She wore no jewellery, though her clothes were expensive, in the hundreds of dollars at least. She was begging Sherlock to find who did this. Patrick smiled.

Sherlock turned, seeing Jane come. He nearly smiled. Intrigued as he was about the case, he was in no mood to interview a teary-eyed widow. And Jane, much as he was loath as he was to admit it, would be able to interrogate her far better than he could. "Ah, Mrs Shawl, I'd like you to meet my… colleague, for the time being, Mr Jane. You can talk to him. I suspect he will be far more pleasant to talk to."

Patrick smiled, and waved a hand. "Hi." Mrs Shawl managed to smile faintly, though it was tainted with doubt.

"I'm going to see what I can find in the bedroom," Sherlock announced to Patrick and the widow. "Something there might be a clue." He strode over to Jane, and bent down to whisper in his ear. "Ask her how—"

"How she knew already it was murder?" interrupted Patrick in the same hushed tone. "Yep. On it."

Sherlock smiled quickly. It was nice having someone on the same page as him, other than Mycroft. He left for the bedroom, already having an idea as to what he was looking for.

Patrick strode confidently over to the widow, who was beginning to regain her composure. He took her hand, and shook it, holding it with both of his, one hand further up her wrist than the other.

"Mrs Shawl, I promise you, I'll find whoever did this to your husband," said Patrick earnestly, looking deep into her eyes, forcing her to look into his. "But first, I need to know. How did you know it was murder?"

"Sorry?" asked a bemused Mrs Shawl.

"How did you know it was murder?" repeated Patrick. "The coroner couldn't tell. It looked like an accident to him, caused by drunkenness. Surely he told you this."

"Oh, uh, well, Martin has a," Mrs Shawl sobbed, "He had a high tolerance for alcohol. He wouldn't black out like this from two or three glasses of wine."

"His blood alcohol level was through the roof," countered Jane. "He probably had more, whilst you were gone."

Mrs Shawl shook her head. "No, no." She sniffed. "No, he didn't drink without someone present. It was a rule he had, something about accountability."

"Yes, he came from a rough background, didn't he?" asked Patrick, nodding in thought. "Lower class, probably an abusive family. Likely exposed to alcohol and drugs during his youth. Am I right?"

Mrs Shawl nodded. "Um, yes, that's right. He didn't talk about it much. I don't think it was really known to the public. How did you…"

"The tattoo on his shoulder," said Patrick, a touch cryptically. "Now, last question, and then I'll be done. When you were done having sex, what happened to the clothes?"

Mrs Shawl was taken aback for a moment. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's a small idea," said Patrick. "If I'm right, then it will lend an insight into the mind of the killer."

Mrs. Shawls mouth made a small 'oh', before she answered. "Oh, um, well then, we put our clothes in the wash basket. Then, Martin put on his boxers and a shirt, and I put on," she gestured to her clothes, "this, and a gown, and went to the spa."

Patrick thought this through for a while, releasing her hand. "Hmm. Thank you, you've been very helpful. You can go, though I imagine Agent Lisbon will have a lot of boring questions for you to answer." With that, he turned and left for the bedroom to talk with Sherlock. He wondered if he noticed the clothes as well, or if he perhaps found something else.

He entered the bedroom to find Sherlock staring down a closed window. Lisbon came in a moment later.

"You think the killer came through the window?" asked Patrick, knowing the answer. It was obvious.

"Obviously," said Sherlock. "Did you see the candles? They've melted inwards, towards the room."

"Which means the killer must've entered through the windows," extrapolated Lisbon.

"Yes," muttered Sherlock. "The only question now is which room did they come from?" He gripped the window, and raised it, peering outside, before closing the window.

"I'll go round them up," said Lisbon, turning to leave.

"Don't bother," interrupted Patrick. "Whoever did this is long gone."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. Typical Jane. Don't bother with the hard work. He was probably right, of course. He often times was. But he might be wrong, and that's the kicker. He might be, and she wasn't allowed to take that risk.

"I'll go round them up anyway. Cho!" she called, an irritated tone to her voice, leaving the two detectives alone. Patrick smiled, then sighed. He walked over to the bed.

"Nice bed," he said, falling back on to it, then sitting up and bouncing. Sherlock was gazing out the window, and in the reflection of the window, courtesy of the setting sun outside, and the light bulb inside, Patrick saw his eye twitch.

"So who is it?" he asked. Sherlock spun around.

"Hmm?"

"Who do you think is responsible for this?" asked Patrick. "You obviously suspect someone. Who is it?"

Sherlock pursed his lips in contemplation. He wasn't sure he should tell this man. He seemed clever, maybe even as clever as he was. But if he knew, then one more person was at risk, and he was trying to limit that.

"From the way you're brooding, and let's be honest, your attitude and knack for getting into trouble, I'd say… you think it might be your arch nemesis." Patrick smiled as Sherlock's face hardened.

"Don't be ridiculous," the Brit said almost at once, his voice low. "People don't have arch nemeses." The meaning behind his words were obvious, and the average wise person would've stopped pressing. But Patrick, though wise in his own, strange way, was not even average.

"Why not?" asked Patrick. "I have one. And judging by the way you're breathing so heavily, I'd say you have one too. And not your brother, you two still love each other. No, I mean someone who's actually a villainous person. Someone who's very clever, someone whom you've had trouble with quite recently."

Sherlock was quiet, but Patrick knew his words struck home, and that this man would talk.

"James Moriarty," he said, slowly. "He runs a criminal empire. I suspect that it spans multiple countries. You're right, I have had a run in with him rather recently."

"He threatened your life," perceived Patrick, his smile gone. Sherlock nodded, and blinked quickly. "And the life of John."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "He strapped John with enough explosions to level a small house. When he left, I managed to get the bombs off John, but –"

"But then he returned," interrupted Patrick.

"Yes. He had snipers at the ready," continued Sherlock, a slight strain in his voice, though no real change in his facial expressions, or his body language. Just enough for Patrick to notice. "So, I threatened to blow up the bomb. I would've shot at it, and we all would've died." Sherlock turned his gaze to the rest of the room.

"Interesting," said Patrick, his keen gaze intensifying. "You feel guilty. But it's not because you two could've died." Sherlocks jaw tensed. "It's because John keeps waking up at night, every night, afraid. Even more than usual. If he ever gets to sleep in the first place."

Sherlock frowned. Sadness seemed to form in his eyes, if one could believe he knew the emotion. "Obviously."

At that point, John himself walked through the door. The two consultants looked at him.

"Uh, got anything?" he asked them, though his question was more directed towards Sherlock than Patrick.

"Ah, yes," said Patrick, standing up. "The three of us are going to go and enjoy a nice dinner with Lisbon, and the two other members of the team here. I know a nice place not far from here." Sherlock scowled in confusion.

"Oh, uh," John stumbled over his words. "Sorry, I meant about the case."

"The killer came through the window," said Sherlock immediately, and Patrick saw no longer the sorrow in his body language, or his face. Sherlock pointed to the window, and walked to his friend. "He used poison to attack the victim's liver, then injected the extra alcohol. We need to find out what poison he used. Which, considering I can't get my hands on the body, will take a while."

"Yes, that's all very fancy and clever," said Patrick, waving his hand. "But I think there's something far more interesting and important that you might've missed."

John's eyebrows shot up at the audacity of this man. He nearly laughed.

"Go ahead, laugh," said Patrick, noticing John's face. "But I'll bet you ten dollars Sherlock can't tell me what's wrong, and why it's important."

John smirked, and looked at Sherlock, who smiled. The British consultant looked Patrick in the eye, and Patrick smiled, pulling out ten dollars.

"You're on," he said, turning his gaze back to the room. Thoughts came and went, ideas conjured and denied. Thirty seconds passed. Patrick looked at the man, smiling once again.

_He'll get it,_ thought Patrick. _In five, four, three, two _

"The clothes," said Sherlock, smiling, a faint air of superiority. "The clothes are what's wrong."

Patrick smiled brighter. "Good. Why are they wrong?" Sherlocks smile dropped minimally.

"Their missing," he said, his confidence not yet slipping.

Patrick stared at him, challenging him to answer further, and Sherlock stared back, daring Patrick to ask him out loud. Neither one's smile left their faces.

"Good," said Patrick, at last. "I mean, you haven't really explained why they're missing is a problem, but it still counts, I suppose." Sherlock scowled at that.

"Oh really?" he asked. "And why are they important?"

"Okay, well, to be fair," began Patrick, waving his hands in a placating gesture, "I do know a little more about events than you, so the bet was a little unfair. The clothes missing is important because it tells us almost exactly who would commit this murder."

"And that is?" asked John, his patience wearing thinner by the cryptic sentence.

"Someone who is meticulous," answered Sherlock, realising.

"Exactly," said Patrick. "Look at this place. There is barely anything amiss. The duvet is neat, the window is closed, the clothes are probably in the basket. Now, a polite killer might neatly remove the covers, and most killers would close the window, but what kind of a killer would put away their victim's clothes?"

"Ah, an obsessive one?" asked John, slowly, not quite sure of his answer.

"Precisely," answered Patrick. He was quiet for a moment, then he clapped his hands. "Now, I know the perfect place to get a good meal." He turned and walked to the door.

"I don't eat on a case," said Sherlock, stopping Patrick. He turned, a confused look on his face.

"Really?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah, really," answered John, almost laughing. He knew well the confusion Sherlock's habits brought to others. "Slows him down, apparently."

Patrick considered this. "Hmm. Oh well, good time for you to meet the team. Oh, here you are." Patrick handed over the ten dollars. Sherlock took it with a small smile. John nearly sighed.

"Thank you, goodbye," said a weary Teresa. She turned to Cho, who seemed tired, though his demeanour would not show it to an unaccustomed eye. "That all of them?"

Cho checked his list. "Ah, no. There's still three more, but the desk clerk said that they left this morning, around nine a.m."

"Great," drawled Teresa. She sighed. "We should probably go get something to eat. Get ready to leave. Tell Rigsby." Cho nodded, and made his way to find the other agent. She sighed again.

She made her way to the bedroom once again, to fetch Jane. She didn't hear any shouting, or anything breaking, so that was a good sign. As she neared it though, Jane came out, followed by John and Sherlock. Sherlock was tucking away some money.

"Ah, Lisbon," said Jane. "Excellent. Get Rigsby and Cho, I have an excellent place in mind for dinner."

Teresa rolled her eyes. Of course he did. "Okay, fine. But I'm driving." Jane's smile drooped .

"Don't be ridiculous," said Jane. "You're exhausted; if you drive, you could crash, and get us killed."

"If I drive, we'll get there without feeling like we were on a rollercoaster with no safety in place!" exclaimed Teresa.

"Oh, come on," complained Jane, stepping forward. "If I drive, we'll get there on time to get a nice meal. If _you _drive, we might crash, or we arrive a couple of hours past closing time."

Teresa gaped. "I do not drive that slow," she protested, pointing at Jane. "You're just so used to ignoring the speed limits that _following_ them seems slow to you." Teresa turned, and left, reaching inside to find her keys. To her relief, they were still there; she had gotten away from Jane before he managed to pick her pocket, the cunning thief.

She hadn't asked what they had talked about, not only because Jane didn't give her a chance, but also because she knew it would be pointless. Jane never revealed everything before the climatic end, and she was willing to bet, after what John told her, Sherlock was the same.

She huffed at the thought of the British consultant. Yes, Minelli said that they had to work together, but that didn't mean she had to like it. In fact, she was probably going to do everything in her power to keep him out of her investigation.

She felt a tinge of guilt at that thought. After all, he _had _helped them, by virtually proving the case was a homicide; after all, the coroner had deemed it an accident, and an autopsy would have revealed it much later, maybe even late enough that they couldn't solve the case. She had to admit, it was nearly uncanny how he managed it.

So perhaps she should give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt. As long as he didn't get out of line, he should be fine.

Stepping out the front entrance, Teresa stifled a yawn, raising her hand to her mouth. She was aware of Jane grinning mischievously behind her. Of course he was, she didn't even need to turn. He was so obviously making that face, that knowing grin. She groaned, and turned, fishing the keys out of her pocket.

"Fine," she caved, chucking the keys to him. He caught them out of the air, his grin widening. His pace increased, and he walked past her.

"Thank you," he said as he passed, and Teresa rolled her eyes. "Just don't get us killed," she called to him. "Or a fine!"

Jane waved the keys, a typical gesture for him when he knew he'd won, and he unlocked the car. Steeling her nerves, she got into the passenger seat, with Sherlock and John behind them.


End file.
